 sj |
||
|
||
Mudcat Poetry Corner
|
|
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: EJ Date: 21 Feb 03 - 06:47 PM Does anyone have any poetry written to honor the events of 911? I have read some great works in this thread. EJ |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 22 Feb 03 - 12:30 PM Dances in SilenceYou are the dance that has no words and rises In the spring's own flood to the wind and rain That sweeps the silence into the noise-worn bone And raises the teeth of hearts again. Only there do none dance alone. The hard breath and wild limbs' sway tell All the story, and the soul's devises Rising with the time of far and endless bells. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sandy Creek Date: 22 Feb 03 - 01:08 PM I'll start this one. Where were you standing when the towers fell. What were you doing when the Earth hung suspended between heaven and hell. If you care to, jump in and add it to or change it or do whatever you like, then pass it on. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Micca Date: 22 Feb 03 - 07:47 PM Everyone knows exactly where They were, it's sad alas Like older folks in a different time First heard the news from Dallas World events leave lasting marks On us or so it seems And how and when we heard the news Is etched into our dreams |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 15 Apr 03 - 04:59 PM Plain Beauty, Too The plain side has its own time and bend-- Not so bright, but long, long -- Which must be known to comprehend The rainbow song. Bright colors, alas, can be too easy; shrill In seeming, rich in fear, When even fire can be fooled, and Will Will not stand near. With effort plain, sharing the ground, Even a dirge will show an honest face To anyone whose name is bound And earned in common space. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Uncle_DaveO Date: 15 Apr 03 - 06:32 PM I saw a two-line joke in the Saturday Evening Post 50-some years ago. Thus a poem of sorts, and then a song. The poem is as follows: Come all you young maidens and listen And gain some instruction from me. Be modest, demure, and retiring, And chase not the bachelor so free. Oh, do not act bold, free, and brazen; Be modest, retiring and shy. Men flee from the woman who chases And the brazen young lady pass by. But the modest girl does not chase bachelors As doubtless you have been aware, For the modest girl does not chase bachelors As the bear-trap does not chase the bear! Dave Oesterreich |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Uncle_DaveO Date: 15 Apr 03 - 06:35 PM The fourth-last line should be, of course: But the modest girl does not chase bachelors (plural) Dave Oesterreich |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Celtaddict Date: 15 Apr 03 - 10:56 PM Glad to find haiku amongst folkies. Swirl-black Spanish lace, Backed by wool of oyster white: Winter tree and sky. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 16 Apr 03 - 10:16 AM To us, who travel time, All stories have been heard before; Head full of folk-songs. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: beardedbruce Date: 16 Apr 03 - 02:04 PM Sonnet 07/05/02 Banshee DCLXXXVIII It was an odd noise that I heard, this night: Not quite a scream, but far more than a gasp, From moonless darkness, with no stars in sight. What is this coldness, that my insides clasp? Why do I weaken, hearing sound so far Only the echo reaches ear, yet mind Is twisted from intent? How can I bar Gate of imagination to wyrd bind? I fall, boneless with fright, and sweat breaks out; Bowels turn to water with despair. I weep, To lose all. I moan, but cannot give shout To more than whimper, nor my reason keep. She passes, and I live! Yet dare not rise For fear of seeing Death within her eyes. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Mudlark Date: 17 Apr 03 - 01:38 AM Thanks for all submissions...not surprising that Mudcatters are good poets. Here's one of mine OLD MOON The moon, squashed and misshapen Rises above a jumble of pickup sticks-- Crossed contrails in the night sky. No slim crescent this, its void a Future contract, its open circle So suggestive of possibilities, fulfillment. Neither has it the lush ripeness Of the full moon, clearly at the top Of her game, all promises granted. No, gravity has had it's way with This moon, blowsy now and bulging, Firm contours gone, symmetry erased. How could it come to this, the moon Asks, gazing sadly into some puddle or Sylvan pond, in just four short days? Like some earthly body she is shocked At the disparity between mirror and Inner eye, an unwilling shape-shifter. She wraps herself in veils of cloud And climbs high into the sky, knowing The kindness of distance, and waits for day. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 12 Jun 03 - 05:29 PM I found this in my saved drafts in one of my email addresses....its a couple of years old... Standing On the Dyke I stand on the dyke... Watching the river gurgle across the sunburnt stones... I stand on the dyke... Listening to the bees buzz in my ear... The wind blows through my hair... Whistling as he clambers through the trees... The wind blows through my hair... Dancing with the grass tickling my knees... Swimmers dive beneath the river... Cool water slides passed their faces... Swimmers dive beneath the river... Rushing downwards to meet with wet embraces... Lovers stand on the shoreline... Their laughter marching lightly up the bank... Lovers stand on the shoreline... Whispers of love spoken in their eyes... I turn back to an empty house... Ghosts gently peaking through the curtains... I turn back to an empty house... Slowly, I step through a darkened doorway, alone... nathan tompkins 2001 |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 13 Jun 03 - 12:01 AM Very evocative, Amergindarlin'.... |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 04 Sep 03 - 02:48 PM Chez La Lune Yes, she had beauty, sure and clear Reaching deep in the eye, and calmly still That sort of beauty which invites the see'r To think of dying or retiring, all fulfilled. Perhaps too beautiful to care, Like some confection, bringing hard remorse Seeming more appetite than truth Like guileful fire, painted on a screen of force, Or musical deception, luring hearts away With the tones and rhythms of imagined hours, Lying delightfully about the end of winter Until the silence came, killing the flowers. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: kendall Date: 04 Sep 03 - 07:24 PM HAZARDS TO NAVIGATION by kendall morse Did I ever tell you people, about a time long years ago, When Jackson and I left No Man's, in a fog that hung heavy and low? From No Man's into Camden, is almost 30 miles, no radar in those days, dead reckoning all the while. Coming across Penobscot Bay in a fog that was dungeon thick, I knew we could be run down, by tanker or a cargo ship. We could hear the horns and whistles of those monsters all around, One could ram us in that soup and never hear a sound. Jack was standing on the bow to get a better view, "We're surrounded Cap'n" he yelled back "What are we gonna do"? "Throw some of them Maine potatoes, like snowballs, hard as you can, and, if one of them don't splash, I'll know it's time to turn." We left the channel far behind, but, I couldn't find The Graves, Our time was up, and it wasn't there, and, the Mate began to rave. His girl was waiting on the shore, all the time we were at sea, And the last thing in the world he wanted to do, was spend another hour with me. He'd had enough of the sea that day, but, I just let him steam, I killed the engine and listened hard, for that buoy off our beam. We didn't know which way to head, 'cause we didn't know where we were, The buoy I wanted wasn't there was all I knew for sure. Then all at once, it came to me, the smell of new mown hay, And, a real odd sound come with it from somewhere across the bay. In that soup we didn't know we were so close to the shore, But, a boy was out there mowing his lawn, we could hear his engine roar! "We're lost in the fog," I hollered, "After a week at sea, how do you get to Camden"? He said, "My Dad takes me." There was no help there, so,we came about to get her well off shore, then, the fog gave up, and there was The Graves, 'twas only a mile or more. We tied her up in Camden, after a long hard jog, and we promised ourselves that never again would we sail in that kind of fog. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: kendall Date: 04 Sep 03 - 07:26 PM That was based on a true incident, but I did stretch the truth a bit. If I can figure out how to do it, I'll submit one that was written by my 14 year old grand daughter. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: kendall Date: 04 Sep 03 - 07:30 PM Here is a poem from my 14 year old grand daughter. Her father is a misogynist rat bastard who abused her. I didn't know it until he was long gone. The world is too close in us Late and early Caressing and dying we lay waste our powers Little we see in grief that is ours We have given our love away, A bleeding death. This demise that lays vulnerable to the lies This hound that wails into the night, And, is collected now, like bleeding flowers, For this, for everything, we are discomforted, It does not touch us, But, still, we ask, "How could you do this to me"? I'd rather be a child, wrapped in a torn shirt So that I, running on this broken land, Could have glimpses to make me less forlorn And, see myself rising from the sea And hear the Gods blare comfort from a horn. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 04 Sep 03 - 10:20 PM Heavy stuff for a 14 yr old, Kendall, you've a right to be proud of her. I LOVE your Hazards...love to read those kinds of poems out loud...one can be so dramatic! Thanks! |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 04 Sep 03 - 10:40 PM Skipper: Your granddaughter has the real poet's genius in her -- let it be fostered!! A |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST Date: 04 Sep 03 - 10:54 PM No doggerelists need apply (Inspired by the currently ongoing scouring of the shires of New Hampshire for a poet laureate) The poets of the Granite State From top gun down to not-so-great Are clucking like a brood of hens, They seek a Poet Laureate. Let's hope those folks will take up pens Who write verse no one comprehends, (For clarity is worse than rhyme) And nominate themselves - or friends. For those who grasp the paradigm, And are in versifying prime, Who know enigma wins the day, This is indeed a heady time. You'll sense those poets by their ways, They've not quite shaken all clichés, With sandals, flowery dress or beard, Or strutting round in French berets. Soon one will be e'en more revered, Raised aloft, with fame veneered With ancient Greek-style laurels crowned, In shopping malls and classrooms cheered. Will our next Laureate be found Like Dalai Lama, unrenowned, In humble, rural trailer park, And academia confound? Or will it be a hierarch, Who has already left a mark Within the corridors of fame, With rhymeless verse, obscure and stark? New Hampshire poets seek a name, It matters not if Knight or Dame, A hayseed or a city dwellah, To fill the vacant throne's the aim. Please help them find their Cinderella That poetess or poet fellah Think – who could be the Laureate? Now mail that choice to Pat Frisella*. *Pat Frisella is the President of New Hampshire Poetry Society. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: The Barden of England Date: 05 Sep 03 - 03:48 AM I had a tune going round in my head, and these words sort of 'popped' out. I think they work as a poem too, which isn't always so with words from songs. WHY? © John Barden 1999 Why worry 'bout tomorrow, when tomorrow never comes? Why fill yourself with sorrow, when joy within you runs? Softly, slowly, listen hard you'll find. Deep down, in there, an inner peace of mind. So don't be blind Why talk of all this fighting, when it always leads to war? So many wrongs need righting, tell me what they do that for? Can't they, just see, it's all a waste of life. Each one precious to a mother, father, wife. And child of strife. Why fill our air with gasses, when it's none that we can breathe? Why impoverish the masses, when they're just the ones we need? Give of yourself, compassion is a start. Soon you'll notice, the world of which you're a part. Cross my heart. Why is our planet dying, when it's all been done for greed? Why are politicians lying, when the simply is no need? Just once, maybe, they'll think of you and me. No self interest, just let the people be. Well - wait and see. Why worry 'bout tomorrow, when tomorrow never comes? Why fill yourself with sorrow, when joy within you runs? Softly, slowly, listen hard you'll find. Deep down, in there, an inner peace of mind. So don't be blind |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 05 Sep 03 - 09:48 AM Well! those are both mighty fine verses. Guest, your tale on New Hampshire is especially funny and well-built. John. I really like the song. Love to hear it. A |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Jack Lewin Date: 05 Sep 03 - 11:54 AM Ode to Pete and Jack On every farm not long ago You had to have a team To turn the sod, to haul the hay To realize your dreams Pete and Jack, you did just that! That and so much more You hauled the wood that fed the fires You worked hard every day If you didn't do what you did so well We wouldn't be here today With power and grace and steady of pace The future rested on your backs' So raise your glases and offer a toast To the memory of Pete and Jack! Cheers jl |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: The Barden of England Date: 10 Sep 03 - 02:33 AM Amos You can hear the first part of 'Why?' at the following URL:- http://www.folknet.co.uk/johnbarden/sounds.htm . There are 1 minute samples from some of my other songs there too. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 10 Sep 03 - 11:05 AM ObSongs: I wrote this in 1953; it was published in my high school's magazine. The tune that inspired it was that of "Golden Vanity". An Argument About That Which is Holy But a ghost begets love And love begets curiosity And curiosity begets light And light kills ghosts. "Once you learn a song, it is dead: A song out of the darkness attracts you; It is soft and beautiful: It is an angel or a ghost Floating free. But you love it And catch it somewhere else, Get a good look, Write it down, Learn it, sing it, Chain it to a piece of paper and a brain, Enslave it, make it do your bidding, And it seems to pine away and die in chains." "But this is all wrong! Not red-blooded -- Ghosts are killed by their descendants; they are cannibal; Not fit; they'll die out: Facts and fun live on, and that is good; That is the way to look at it: Dying men leave ghosts, but dying ghosts Leave better things behind: Sing your song loudly -- give the spirits blood!" |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 23 Dec 03 - 02:26 PM Choosing green colors, braver souls Forswear the blues, Discard the grays, Pursue fire in the form, and Demand life or nothing. These are the hearts -- bright blooms on the screen of the soul, detected like nuclear tests, The signature, unmistakeable, of souls unwilling to die and Choosing greens for all nows... Fired in the bone, brightened in eye These are the ones who see and Who have learned the name of freedom Is saying what you have seen, just Part of the package, one Well worth defending. If hearts can go out, these Always do, and mine As part of this amazing light-webbed world Goes, so, to you. This is the web that births song -- The one the birds in morning fly to -- How is it, when I approach its center, I see you,smiling? |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Peg Date: 23 Dec 03 - 02:40 PM ooh! Amos, nice one! I a very curious as to what it's about... I will share one I wrote about a month ago... Transplendent We It's deceptive, this light at Hallows. A mask of wind and water, spinning, sparkling, like silver spokes, or falling leaves, or candy floss, or false conviviality, too-fast friends. As the river curves to meet us, we shamble along, soaked with mist, parched for ale, like troubadours, or troubled ghosts, on our way to a midnight market, there to choose cakes and berries from the goblin stalls, in the shadow of forbidden castles and glowing maples, the walkways bright as coins beneath our feet. Here where the sloping banks converge, the trees lean in, as if to kiss, thorned and black on the right, airy and golden on the left, Bacchus, Hecate, Apollo, Aphrodite, nuzzling, glancing approval as we invent words to mark this season of harvest. No yellow moon, no sheaves of wheat, no bawdy lyric, but ploughshares swinging, hoofed beasts clocking over wet grey streets to sleep in tranquil barns. The red blush creeping up your throat surprises us all, like brazen hollyhocks that suddenly realize they've reached the second floor. Dizzy with drink and drunk on autumn's ether, we find the otherworld we've sought all evening. Its hollow hills ring, empty as dessicated bulbs, yet bright with color, flowing with nectar, its great halls lit with rustic lanterns, candles set in carved-out turnips, meant to keep spirits at bay, and yet soon the very air is keening. The sky is slowly tinted green. Our tongues are slippery with juice. The clock strikes three, three times, and we are younger than we were. I started to like you, your small hands like Proustian sweets. I started to like you, you and your words like dark abundant rain, poppyseeds poured out on cobblestones. Simple folk we, laughing long songs like books of fruited verse. There where the cats consider the canal, the moon at last emerges, and we become more and more unfashionable by the minute. I conjure a forest from a single tree: like ardent sloths, we hold fast to its mutant trunk, hard, rough, pulsing with faint heat. It multiplies into a fairy-tale wood, varied as Paradise, thick with English bluebells and rhetorical mushrooms; it smells of sex and stagnant water, hashish, leafmold, bile and burnt sugar, rotting velvet, and tobacco that ought to be Turkish. We could be anywhere: a Holland of the Mind, or drowned Ys, forgotten Brittany, a temple of jewels in Morocco, a chalk hillside hewn by pagan muralists, a green field in America, a Danish bog stuffed with dead druids, Constantinople, Brigadoon, or a fragrant churchyard that beckons in dreams, like mementos from a love lost in war-time, coal-dust in your hair, violets in your pocket. The veil between the worlds is thin, they say, tonight. And if we walk now to the marketplace (we fancy it built of fog and fireflies) the goblins will smile, cry hail and welcome! They nod their heads, stroke our hair, grasp our fingers, whisper, yes, the veil grows thin, grows thin. They hand us three lengths of shimmering cloth, dyed the colour of winter plums, smelling of old roses. We give them all the gold we have. We wrap ourselves in purple. We wake, and seven days have passed, or seven years. Our fingers are torn, stained red with fruit. Our lips are bruised, and taste of truth. I touch your mouth, and it is the sun. Leiden, Samhain, 2003 |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Raedwulf Date: 24 Dec 03 - 05:08 PM 90% perspiration, 10% inspiration? More like 1% inspiration, 99% blind panic! My medieval society holds a Gorsedd (song, poetry or story) every Autumn. I made the mistake of winning it in 2001 (with a story). This granted me the dubious privilege of opening the Gorsedd in 2002. I rarely poet, being (like Kipling, a writer I much admire) a storyteller & wordsmith, rather than a genuine po! ;) Nevertheless, for a cause that will never be adequately explained, I just had to write a poem... I sat under an Avebury stone (I wish I could claim some poetic inspiration from this, but no, I have the sensitivity of a brick...) on Friday afternoon desperately scribbling that which would be performed the following evening, trying to capture the essence of the competition that would follow my Intro piece... It seemed to work... :) I AMI am the laughter in the voice The sparkle in the eyes The sorrow in the heart I am the darkness at the core I am the words that stir your soul And the melody that lifts your heart I am the ache of empty loneliness And the strength that carries to the end I am a candle, a bowl, a mysterious stranger The cry of gulls, a stout companion, I am a silken thread I am the raven, the lion, the broken word The tattered rags, a forest's gloom, and the warming welcoming fire I am the silent footfall that pursues The unexpected cracking twig The eyes that glitter in the night The howling carried on the wind… I am the shining sun, the driving rain The boundless joy, the endless pain I am the snowy blanket, the wind in the hair I am the chill of death, & the life that dares… I am madness and reason, both in one The axe that severs bone from bone I am the cunning and guile that steals as it please I am the love that cleaves close, and the love that frees Can you guess my name? This I doubt For I am every thing, I am no thing I am the song, I am the story I am the Gorsedd I am begun… |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 24 Dec 03 - 06:20 PM Pretty work, Raedwolf!! Peg -- breathtaking images and overtones. Love it!! A |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joybell Date: 24 Dec 03 - 08:06 PM Paddy was a little boy who was a Changling - (in modern terms a brain-damaged human child) He loved old fashioned stories and songs. "Undies" was the funniest word he knew, but it wouldn't fit into this poem. One day he wandered into the Australian bush and was never found. PADDY'S SONG Come away with me my Faerie-child Away from the tears and pain Come away my Changling, Faerie-child Back to your home again. You shall wear, on your golden curls A shining, jewelled crown Your shirt shall be of the finest silk Your cloak of the feather-down. A sleek grey hound I'll give to you And a hawk with a sad, sweet cry And you shall ride a Faerie steed Into the sunset sky. Silver-shod his hoofs shall be And gaily you shall ride A saddle hung with silver bells A sword hung by your side. By day we'll sleep 'neath the mossy bank On a bed of the Wildwood flowers And you must not heed the mortal ones Who call through the sunshine hours. And we shall rise in the green twilight With a warm wind in our hair And ride away to the Rainbow bridge And cross in the evening air. So come away my Faerie-child Away from your Earth-bound pain Come away my Faerie Changling child Back to your home again. Paddy's friend Joy |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 24 Dec 03 - 10:52 PM Joy and Raedwolf, well done! I really like the way those read aloud. The imagery in all recent postings is just wonderful. Thanks to all for sharing! kat |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: beardedbruce Date: 25 Dec 03 - 11:55 AM Sonnet 24/12/03 DCCCLXIX Shall I light candles, thinking of my muse, And the bright warmth that her smile gives to dawn? Or should I incense burn, to let smoke choose The future path to which my heart is drawn? Shall I in solemn ceremony chant A listing of desires, to offer wine To wash away my fears? My efforts can't Give absolution for dream she'd be mine. Shall I in isolation inward turn, To look upon forever, and abyss? Is faith the answer, that my heart will learn If I might find true heaven in her kiss? I offer prayer to muse, that she might send Enough of heart's desire to my soul mend. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,sandy creek Date: 26 Dec 03 - 10:20 AM dancing in the dark (growing up) the boys hold up the wall shuffling feet in heat afraid they will fall if they step away... the girls are all chatter and clatter of bangles and beads and full of needs of young women coming of age... post mortem(vietnam) we felt much better when the bad people died we laughed when the old women cried it felt real good when i killed him i shot him in the head i held him by his hair and shook him as he bled and laid on his bed and sang death chants with his children |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Bearheart Date: 28 Dec 03 - 02:45 PM Thanks all, I haven't even been able to read all of it, so many good words. Little here has left me untouched-- but thanks especially to Peg and Deda for their contributions... and to Amos for the idea. I'll be back for more. Bekki |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 28 Dec 03 - 07:38 PM Through the years, we've grown used to the truth-telling boor, so rejoice in the yeast and its white lies on beer -- in the bubble-borne boost to the bedlam where you're a contented old beast in a Happy New Year. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Tang the Orangutan Date: 29 Jan 04 - 01:05 AM Ode To Lice White and brown Crawling on many legs In the reddish brown jungle Of my body hair Communing with the fleas Creating itches everywhere Food for my empty belly You crawl around me Hiding amongst the mats Of my soft long hair Sucking my blood Feeding your young As I hunt for you To eat you A vicious circle. TTO |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Teresa Date: 29 Jan 04 - 01:41 AM Thank you, Amos! How inspiring all you 'catters are; beautiful poems here! The Ocean Here is a water droplet Aware of an ocean; So near, so near ... Where is it? It can be heard; It can be felt; But as soon as it's grasped, It can't be held. It pours; It seeps; It is everywhere. The drop of water Is at first afraid Not to know where it ends And the ocean begins ... "Where is the ocean?" it wants to know. The ocean carries the droplet The ocean is made up of this And many others. The drop of water Forgets itself And suddenly There is only the ocean Made up of everything the drop of water is And much, much, much more! (12-31-01 [And now, for something completely different ... ] There once was a man of our time Who tried his best to rhyme. He thought and he thought, His brain in a knot, But all he could do was write nonsequiturs. (11-05-03) [sorry, couldn't resist; running away fast now ;) ] Teresa |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 29 Jan 04 - 04:55 AM LOL! You're welcome/! A |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Cuilionn Date: 29 Jan 04 - 09:22 AM Och, ye're aye a glorious bunch o wairdsmiths! But yir wee lassie's back tae test yir Scots-readin skills, sae Ah'm postin a "warm up exercise" (on mair than ane level) for ye tae peruse... Ah postit this ane elsewhaur, twa days back, but Ah've tweakit the wairds a bit syne. Tis basit on the auld Celtic kythin that Winter cam when the Crone hardenit the yirth wi her sillar (silver) hammer, an Spring cam when the Maiden (aiblins Bridgit) cam thro, wavin her white wand tae saften the yirth aince mair. IMBOLCTIDE When yon Auld Grannie gyres an gimps an unco dance on cranreuch groond an gies her sillar curls a crimp, Ye ken that Imbolc's comin roond. When sillar hammers, blaw for blaw fa habber-haird in hinmaist hone then haud ye fast, for soon the thaw will prize awa cauld winter's loan. Nae lang she'll lanesame bide, nor sup Wi'oot the dochter she lo'es best; Nae grannie redds the kailyaird up But for the thocht o some comin guest! Nae mair the lanesame anvil-drum Will mark the pace o Grannie's dance-- The Lass o the Lintin Wand shall come An lowpin lambies hae their chaunce-- For Grannie Cailleach's time grows short An wee snaw-drappies rowthie ring for Bridgit cams, blithe hope tae sport An after Bridgit cams-- the Spring! Glossary: unco=strange, cranreuch=frosty, ken=know, Imbolc=Celtic Feast/source of Groundhog's Day, blaw=blow, fa=fall, habber=stutter, hinmaist=last, haud=hold, prize=pry, awa=away, wi'oot=without, dochter=daughter, redds the kailyaird up=cleans the place, thocht=thought, comin=coming, Lintin Wand=glinting wand of Bridgit, lowpin=leaping, chaunce=chance, Cailleach=crone/Celtic Earth-Goddess, snaw-drappies=snowdrops, rowthie=abundantly, cams=comes, blithe=joyous --Yir vairsifyin lass, Cuilionn |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: johnfitz.com Date: 29 Jan 04 - 12:06 PM Coming home from a job in an orchard in New Salem MA I go tmy car stuck next to one of those innumerous family graveyards scattered throughout New England Joshua Sawyer I doubt I'd ever have taken this road had I known how fallen it really was to disrepair: driving comically, skirting ruts and high boulders, grimacing at every bang on the oil pan. I tell you it's the old road to Wendell — that they don't make them like this anymore. We're bound by curious obligations, and so stop by an old family plot walled in by piles of jumbled fieldstone, cornered to the edge of what once was field. The picket gateway still stands intact, somebody propped up leaning on a stick, an anonymous gesture of reverence. Only nature disrespects: toppling stone, bursting with suckers and wild raggedness. A gravestone, schist of worn slate, leans weathered: Joshua Sawyer Died Here 1860 Another stone, cracked, has fallen over. I reset the stone, and scrape the caked earth as if studying some split tortoise shell, and have keyed in to a distant birth — His wife Ruth died young; so I picture him stern with his only daughter, only child — speaking for a faith which could defy her. There'd be no passing onto when she died — twenty-two, more words beside her mother. Still these stones and fields you kept in order, long days spent forcing sharp turns on nature, accepting the loose stone and thin topsoil. A Wendell neighbor must have buried you whispering a eulogy which is as lost as your daughter, your wife, and this farm: 'Joshua Sawyer I've never been down this road before I would like to speak with you of faith. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,mudcat haikuist Date: 29 Jan 04 - 01:23 PM I fart, cheeks vibrate people gag, choke, retch and puke. My shit doesn't stink. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: johnfitz.com Date: 29 Jan 04 - 03:36 PM Coming home from a job in an orchard in New Salem MA I go tmy car stuck next to one of those innumerous family graveyards scattered throughout New England Joshua Sawyer I doubt I'd ever have taken this road had I known how fallen it really was to disrepair: driving comically, skirting ruts and high boulders, grimacing at every bang on the oil pan. I tell you it's the old road to Wendell — that they don't make them like this anymore. We're bound by curious obligations, and so stop by an old family plot walled in by piles of jumbled fieldstone, cornered to the edge of what once was field. The picket gateway still stands intact, somebody propped up leaning on a stick, an anonymous gesture of reverence. Only nature disrespects: toppling stone, bursting with suckers and wild raggedness. A gravestone, schist of worn slate, leans weathered: Joshua Sawyer Died Here 1860 Another stone, cracked, has fallen over. I reset the stone, and scrape the caked earth as if studying some split tortoise shell, and have keyed in to a distant birth — His wife Ruth died young; so I picture him stern with his only daughter, only child — speaking for a faith which could defy her. There'd be no passing onto when she died — twenty-two, more words beside her mother. Still these stones and fields you kept in order, long days spent forcing sharp turns on nature, accepting the loose stone and thin topsoil. A Wendell neighbor must have buried you whispering a eulogy which is as lost as your daughter, your wife, and this farm: 'Joshua Sawyer I've never been down this road before I would like to speak with you of faith. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Megan L Date: 30 Jan 04 - 03:26 PM Farewell My Son I waved to you my son My chef's whites gleaming as proudly as my smile I nudged my apprentice "That's my boy" And as we watched you across the water My heart was filled with joy. At ships rail and on shore we did wave We weren't to know that sunny day That within the cycle of the sun Our war would start and end And one of us would have a sailor's grave. The great liner sailed on On shore the mighty shipyards thundered 453 growing daily with honest toil Rivets flying, hammers ringing, little knowing For one of us the war would soon be done. And on the liner, ladies danced sequinned gowned Men black as hell fed hungry fires Diamonds of sweat their only adornment A gong calling passengers to dinner Soon all would be drowned. Death stalked round Eire's shore Silent streak towards the mighty hull Ripping into her side, tearing at her life Explosive sound, screams of trapped and dying Stench of burning flesh. She is no more. Still the shipyards thunder on 453 a silent shadow now waiting in the wings The unborn ghost of Liners yet to come Waiting till men may safely sail round Erie's shore She will not go where I have gone Farewell my son ...... .... .... My father and his apprentice stood at the edge of the Clyde and waved farewell to his apprentices father who was a cook on the Athena (think I've remembered the name) that was the last time the boy ever saw his father. Megan L |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Megan L Date: 30 Jan 04 - 03:41 PM Wasn't sure I got the name right so checked his writing, she was the Athenia. found this report of her sinking. Athenia was the first British ship sunk by a German U-boat in World War II. Germany had invaded Poland on September 1 and Britain declared war on Germany at 1115 on September 3, shortly after Athenia sailed from Glasgow en route to Montreal with 1,100 passengers embarked, more than 300 of whom were American citizens. That afternoon she was spotted by U-30 about 250 miles northwest of Inishtrahull, Northern Ireland. Although German U-boats were supposed to be operating under prize regulations that obliged them to stop and search any potential targets, Lieutenant Fritz-Julius Lemp decided Athenia was an armed merchant cruiser and fired two torpedoes without warning. The ship sank with the loss of 112 passengers and crew, but despite the fact that among these were 28 Americans, within hours, President Franklin D. Roosevelt had announced that his government was preparing "a declaration of American neutrality." |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: John Hardly Date: 01 Feb 04 - 09:18 PM Tonight...I'll sing you to sleep for the first time knowing We'll be sharing this space for a while. I'll sing and play and you'll do the growing. Hey, can you feel it when I smile? And I'll hold you against my rosewood guitar While I sing from my newly blessed soul And you'll have the best seat in the house by far. My heart, my life, this sound---so full. So I'll sing the high notes (a nice way to start) This guitar will fill in the low, Between you, and me, and this guitar, Tonight...I'll sing to you this lulla-hello I just had a funny thought. If some day you should learn to play the guitar like me, And you press your ear against its top as you play, like all guitar players do… Will you suddenly remember this time together? |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Jeri Date: 01 Feb 04 - 10:08 PM There is some REALLY good stuff in this thread! Inspired by watching videos of some of those 'good time boys' with a good friend, and a long conversation I'd once had with a man who'd occasionally played with Bob Wills. This may turn out to be a song... I dunno. He sat there in the corner Staring miles beyond the stage A sepia tinted image In this electric neon age I bought us a round and said "Friend, There's a story in your eyes." He said "I used to play up there, But how the time it flies, All the good-time boys are gone away One by one they disappeared Like some old photograph Much handled and dog-eared I guess there was too much light And it caused the world to fade And I lived in the shadows So I'm the one who stayed I don't recall the details Of days now past and gone But I remember lighter laughter I remember louder song Maybe I felt safer To travel on my own But now the landscape's foriegn And this world is not my home When I laugh now, my eyes feel cold I laugh because I should I see shadows in the spotlights Where once, giants stood Some of them were strangers Some of them were friends Who set out upon the road that starts Where the horizon ends Sometimes I hear an echo In this empty place Of a song they used to sing Or I recall a face Sometimes memory gets lost In rude insistant noise But oh, how I miss Those good-time boys" |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 01 Feb 04 - 10:22 PM Jeri, that's gotta turn into a song! Well done, womon! Cuillion, I've been getting rusty in my reading, thansk for the practise! Johnfitz, I've been to so many graveyards in New England, much as you describe. Quite beautiful, thanks for sharing! Megan, that is fascinating and really poignant. Thanks! kat |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: The Barden of England Date: 02 Feb 04 - 04:14 AM NAIVIGATOR Copyright John Barden 2001 Imagine youself a jellyfish, pumping away in clear blue forever oceans Never knowing where you're coming from, nor where you're going to, But navigate you do, Vasco da Gama in living goo. Spanning oceans glittering wide, the vast organic great divide, Spinning, casting tentacles, of paralysing manacles. Going nowhere with no great purpose, returning with even less, A larger, stronger gelatinous mess. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Dave Bryant Date: 02 Feb 04 - 09:35 AM Simon (Harlowpoet) seems to be conspicuous by his absence. |
|
Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: harlowpoet Date: 15 Feb 04 - 05:23 AM OK Dave. I'm here now Last night With Mary How did it go Last night with Mary? And so, I told them Hoary and hairy Finding and fumbling Tossing and tumbling Panting and puffing Writhing and roughing Tying and trying Sobbing and sighing Seeking and shrieking Perking and peaking Fawning and facing Calling and chasing Hiding and hoping Going and groping Crawling and clashing Sweating and smashing Squashing and squealing Rockin'and reeling And feeling regrets That's how it gets Catching the cat To take to the vets! (c)SimonVogel |
| Share Thread: |